We Should Let This Dead Guy Sleep
by PrevalentMasters
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's death, John still sees aspects of his friend walking around London. He wants it to stop, he wants to get on with his life, but he can't. Because bloody Sherlock won't let him forget. To make matters worse, the old man who runs the bookshop round the corner now seems to be stalking him...
1. Chapter 1

**This is just brain vomit that's come from too much rewatching of Sherlock and too much extended time in the company of Benedict Cumberbatch's face. I'm trying to imagine how the reunion will go if the writers adapt ACD's original canon ideas fairly directly into the modern setting. Should be about three chapters. Review, please!**

**Warnings: Copious angst and gratuitous bromance. Also I don't own.**

**Image cred: mlysza . tumblr . com **

**1**

He has grown used to his absence, if not accepting of it. Three years, after all, is a long time—agonizingly long, in the scheme of things—and time dulls everything that once felt so starkly absent. Now, there is just a distant, pervasive sense of wrongness, coloring certain aspects of his life.

In the immediate aftermath, he swore he would leave Baker Street. It was near unbearable to stay; haunted by ghosts and the few possessions he couldn't bear to get rid of. Time moved ahead of him, though, in a dizzying blur, and, when a year went by without him finding any other living situation, Mrs. Hudson put her foot down. He would stay, she said, to help her out. Then she lowered the rent so he could afford it on his own. On his own. No flatmate. She certainly isn't making any money off him, which makes him feel rather guilty, but he can't pull himself away from 221B. Something holds him there, some stark essence of Sherlock that lingers after the man and most of his possessions are long gone.

Even now, three years later, he'll walk in the door with a bag of groceries or takeaway and find himself irrationally surprised at the absence of Sherlock's languid limbs sprawled all over the furniture. He is used to the dull pang in his belly when he realizes no one is there. And yet—the pangs don't come as often now, nor do they hurt as badly. It isn't forgetting—never that—it's acclimating. It's growing used to the silence, the empty presence, the not-Sherlock.

It isn't as though his life was shattered beyond repair when Sherlock fell. Things aren't bad now, not at all. Work? Work is good. Steady. Relaxing, almost, or as relaxing as working in a rather busy inner-city surgery can be. Friends? He keeps in touch with Lestrade. He talks with Mike quite often. He has Mrs. Hudson. And then there's Mary…things aren't going too badly with her at all. Nothing terribly serious, he assures himself. He doesn't think he can handle serious at the moment. No, just good. Fun. Comforting.

There are bad days, especially in that first, agonizing year. The worst day? The first anniversary. He'd sat in the darkened kitchen, heartbreakingly empty of dangerous experiments and severed limbs, with his gun resting in front of him, glinting dully with a challenge: _End it. You're sad. Depressed. Useless. Face it, you were only interesting when he was around. _

_He was my best friend. I never told him._

_He would have scoffed._

_Bastard._

_I miss him._

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade banged in with bats of curry takeaway. Mrs. Hudson took the gun from him without a word and stowed it away somewhere. They sat around the table in silence and ate curry so hot it made their noses and eyes run. A convenient cover-up for any inconvenient emotions

Is he depressed? No. More like disconnected, like he can't quite believe life is continuing on as it is. He's not emotionally unstable, not anymore. Just sad.

The three-year mark passes on a cloudy, windy day, the kind of day where the sky seems discontent. In the mirror that morning he notices a distinct patch of grey in his hair. Last week, his limp made a short, inconvenient reappearance. It didn't last long, just long enough to remind him he isn't getting any younger—or any stronger.

That day, Mrs. Hudson brings his gun back. He locks it away in his desk drawer and tries not to think about it.

Three years. Three years, and now it is spring, close to Mary's birthday. He stands in a tiny bookshop around the corner from Baker Street. Recently, Mary has been interested in Celtic Pagan practices, and he wants to get her a book on the subject. He is hardly an expert, though, and the array of strange titles on the shelves is dizzying.

"Scuse me, Sir."

The voice comes from behind, strangely low and croaking. He turns to see a stooped, rather wizened old man holding a book out to him. He tilts his head to read the title: _The Origin of Tree Worship_.

The man grunts slightly and pushes the book at him. "Good introduction to this sort of thing. Looks like you could use one."

He takes the book and turns it over. Fairly basic and not to expensive. Perfect.

"Oh…great—yeah, this'll be brilliant. Thanks—" he looks up only to find the man gone, disappeared back into the stacks.

He stands there for a moment, rather confused by the man's abruptness, but quickly shakes it off. He pays for the book, and as he leaves the shop he catches a glimpse of the man again, standing near the counter, staring at him with keen, ice-blue eyes. A shiver runs up his spine. Those eyes…those are Sherlock's eyes.

His legs move faster than his mind and bolt, sending him out the door of the shop before he is able to fully synthesize the information. The warmth of the spring day is gone and the wind is blowing, the sky grey and chilly once more. He buries his hands in his pockets and gives himself a talking-to. Again.

He has seen Sherlock—or aspects of Sherlock—innumerable times since his death. His tall figure walking ahead of him on the street, his unruly hair poking up above the seat of a cab, the end of his black overcoat swishing around the corner. It's just his mind, playing tricks. That's what happens when someone close to you dies. You see them everywhere—your memory's way of coping. Lot's of people in London have blue eyes, for God's sake. He has to stop psyching himself out over this. Has to quit before he goes completely batshit crazy and winds up in an asylum somewhere, mistaking everyone he sees for a dead man.

He returns to Baker Street, shouts a hello to Mrs. Hudson, and collapses on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He should get his laptop, turn on the TV, go make some tea, do _something_ to get his mind off those blue eyes, but he can't bring himself to move. Sherlock's absence is suddenly as raw and painful as it was three years ago. He wants—no, he _needs_—to hear the man complain, criticize, shoot some holes into the wall, deduce something, _anything_, play some strange, screeching composition on the violin. He needs it, but Sherlock is gone, dead, and _when will he fucking get that into his head_?

He raises his palms to press against his eyes and watches the spots of light dance behind his closed lids. He is suddenly, inexplicably, angry. Look at him. Look at what he has become, something broken and lost, snatching at memories and jumping at shadows. How could he have done this? How could he just go and die on him? Why?

He drops his hands and sat up straight, staring blankly at the wall in front of him, the one still marred by bullet holes, the one he keeps meaning to fix. He says the words loudly, and they echo emptily through the flat.

"I hate you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hola. Thanks for the reviews, etc. Please continue with that because, you know, it's nice. **

**2**

He is tired. It was a long day at the surgery, with innumerable stupid people who did stupid things to themselves and expected him to fix it for them. He is finding himself increasingly frustrated with work, and with people in general. Maybe it's because of his and Mary's break up, a week after he gave her the book on tree worship. She wanted marriage. He didn't. She said she was done. She needed something firmer, more serious. He said fine. He said sorry. He wished her well. He walked home and sat in the dim flat as night fell.

Maybe it's that, or maybe it's his dreams—every night, he is revisited by piercing, ice-blue eyes, staring at him, challenging him. He wakes in a cold sweat every time. Sometimes, there are tear tracks, too.

Lestrade had called the week before with a case—he did, every so often, when the police ran into a dead end. This time it was about some man, Adair, found dead in his flat with all the doors locked from the inside after a night of gambling and drinking. There was something wrong with the case in general, they both knew it, some missing piece, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

"Sherlock would've deduced in minutes," remarked Lestrade.

He chuckled without mirth. "And cursed us out for our stupidity while he was at it."

The faint sound of Lestrade lighting a cigarette came through the line. He'd taken up smoking again. "London's really lost out since…well, you know. There'll never be another like him. Now we just bumble about, and I can't help feeling we're just screwing things up more."

"We probably are."

He sighs, remembering the conversation, and turns on the telly. A stupid, shallow crime show. Sherlock would've torn it apart in seconds. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, letting the dialogue wash over him.

Mrs. Hudson's voice floats up to him from the stairwell. "John, dear? You've got a visitor. Says he's a neighbor. I'm sending him up. I hope you've got the kettle on."

He groans, slamming his head into the back of the chair. Can't the world just leave him alone for one bloody night?

Creaking footsteps on the stairs and a stooped figure appears in the doorway, silhouetted by the glow from the stairwell. He squints to discern the face, then gives up and turns on the lamp.

It is the man from the bookstore. The man with Sherlock's eyes, shuffling forward into the flat, eyes downcast. He wants to see those eyes. He needs to see those eyes.

The man grumbles slightly, scanning the flat. His eyes linger on the bookshelves, rather emptier than they once were, on the cramped furniture, on the shelf where Sherlock's violin rests, case dusty.

"Excuse me," he says, wondering what the hell the man thinks he's doing, why he isn't introducing himself, or at least meeting his eyes.

Abruptly, the man does just that, the piercing blue boring into him, sending the shiver up his spine once more. He manages to hold himself together, but his hand creeps around his back to clutch at the arm of the chair, providing support as his knees start tremble.

"You're surprised to see me," says the man in the same low, croaking voice.

"Well…yeah, I suppose I am. Not that I'm not…I mean…uh, would you like a cup of tea?"

The man declines delicately, shaking his head and smiling slightly. "No, no. I simply noticed where you live, in rather close proximity to my shop, and I thought I might come and apologize for my rather abrupt behavior this afternoon. I was surprised to see you—"

"What?"

The man continues, oblivious. "You'll forgive me for prying, but I notice your bookshelves look a bit barren. I brought some titles of particular interest from the shop. _British Birds, The Holy War, Catullus, _and, of course, _The Encyclopedia of Poisons_. With these, you could fill that unsightly gap on the bottom shelf."

He recognizes all of the titles. Before, they had rested on the bookshelves behind him. But he got rid of them two years ago.

He turns to look at the shelf, and it is empty, empty of Sherlock's strange books. His heart is pounding, his stomach is rolling, because something is wrong, something is strange.

He twists back around to look at the old man. But the old man isn't there.

Sherlock Holmes is.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, frozen and silent, unable to move or think or even breathe. Yes, he has seen bits and pieces of Sherlock—he sees them everywhere, all the time. But this—this is not bits and pieces. This is a whole. The blue eyes, the wild hair, the pale skin, the black coat, all together, one person, whole, unbroken, and definitely not dead.

He looks an utter mess, like he hasn't been eating at all, thinner even than he was when they first met. His hair looks like it hasn't been brushed since the day he died. He is deathly pale, more corpse-like than ever, and bruises stand out starkly beneath his eyes. There's a badly healed scar on his forehead, and a black eye, and he can tell that the limp the old man displayed wasn't a part of the disguise. But he's here, standing, breathing, with his overcoat and his bloody blue scarf, eyes filled with some strange emotion he has never seen in them before.

There are three options. Either Sherlock came back from the dead, he didn't die in the first place, or he is hallucinating. People don't come back from the dead, and even if they did, Sherlock doesn't look like a zombie, thin and wraith-like though he is. And Sherlock definitely died. He saw his broken skull, the blood, the half-open, empty eyes. He had felt desperately for a pulse that wasn't there.

Which leaves one choice. He's hallucinating. He's finally gone off the deep end, and here he is, staring at the shopkeeper (notnotnot Sherlock) like the crazy he's become and probably freaking out the poor bloke. He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath to dispel the hazy grey gathering at the edges of his vision (he's a trained army doctor, he will_ not_ pass out), and tells himself quite firmly that Sherlock Holmes is not standing in front of him because it simply can't be.

"Sorry," he says to the man, eyes still closed. "You just…gave me a bit of a shock. You remind me of someone I used to know and I—"

"John."

The voice is low and rough, smooth and soft. Unique. There is only one person with that voice. He is hearing things now, and goddamnit if this is a dream he wants to wake up because he can't stand this, he can't, and he moves his hands to block his ears and squeezes his eyes even tighter and shakes his head and—

Oh.

There are hands on his wrists, pulling them down, away from his head, and they feel very real. And that voice again—

"Listen to reason, John. I can explain—"

His eyes are open and he is moving before either of them really register it. His fist is drawn back and then it is pushing forward and then it is smashing into Sherlock's very real face with a nasty sounding crunch and Sherlock is stumbling back and he is shouting, shouting…

"Don't you fucking tell me to listen to reason, you utter bastard, you were dead, you _are_ dead, how could you do that to me, look at what you've done to me, I see you everywhere, just go away, I can't stand this, I can't stand seeing you when you're not here, I can't stand this, it has to stop I have to move on you died you died you died I saw you die there was blood in your hair and you were dead and _how could you do this to me_?"

He is screaming, stringing nonsense together, hardly knowing what he is saying. Sherlock leans against a bookcase, hand cupped around his jaw, not meeting his eyes. He strides across the room and takes a handful of scarf and collar and tugs Sherlock's face so he can look at him. The scarf, upon closer inspection, is spotted with blood. He looks worse up close, like he's been sleeping on park benches. He keeps screaming.

"Either you stay or you go. I don't know what the fuck is going on, if this is your idea of some sick post-mortem joke, if you're _haunting_ me. I don't know, but I'm done. This has to stop, you bastard, you're dead and I can't keep seeing you everywhere I go!"

Rapid footsteps on the stairs and suddenly Mrs. Hudson is in the room, panting and scared-looking. "John, what in the world is going on? Why are you yelling at that nice man—"

Her eyes fall on Sherlock and her face goes white. Her hand presses on her heart and she drops down into the nearest chair. "Oh, dear."

His hand involuntarily lets go of the scarf and Sherlock slumps against the shelves as he steps back.

"Wait," he says, and his voice doesn't sound like his own, strained and tired and hopeful. "You…you see him too? He's actually…here?"

She nods silently, eyes still fixed on Sherlock.

"Oh _shit_," he says, and he feels his knees give out and he is abruptly sitting on the floor and there's the grey again, creeping in on the edges of his vision. And even though army doctors don't just pass out and even though he can't think of anything more humiliating than fainting like a girl in front of Sherlock Holmes, he knows that's exactly what's about to happen.

He looks up at Sherlock's face, which now looks vaguely concerned, and manages to grind out one last sentence.

"I am going to kill you for this."

And then the grey takes over.

* * *

He wakes, moments later, disoriented and unsure of his surroundings, unsure of what he did or didn't see. Voices murmur around him—and, yes, one of them is Sherlock's. He feels irrationally relieved. The other voice is Mrs. Hudson's. So he isn't insane. If she is talking with him, it means she sees him. It means he's real. Unless they're both just figments of his imagination.

He opens his eyes, blinking to dispel the lingering grey at the edges of his vision. Sherlock is leaning over him, looking exhausted and worried, two emotions he never thought he would see on that face.

"I owe you an apology, John," he says. "I had no idea you would be so affected."

He stares for a moment, the levels himself upright in the chair. Mrs. Hudson presses a cup of tea into his hands, but he doesn't take his eyes off Sherlock.

"You're alive," he says, stating the obvious but needing to hear the confirmation from Sherlock's own mouth.

"So it would seem." Cool. Unaffected. Same as always. He wants to strangle him and hug him and the same time.

"You never died."

"Really, John, I expected better from you. All the clues were there—you, as ever, _saw _them, but did not _observe_ them."

He grits his teeth, slamming the hand holding the cup of tea down on the arm of the chair. Hot liquid sloshes all over his hand and sleeve, but the pain it brings is far-off. "Damn it, Sherlock! I saw your body! Your skull was smashed in, in case you were wondering! You didn't have a pulse! I took that as proof enough!"

Sherlock sighs and sits down on the couch, accepting, rather surprisingly, a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson. And suddenly, it's all just so _right_, him sitting there on the couch and his bloody little union jack throw pillow next to him and that glint in his eyes….

…And, just as suddenly, he simply can't stand it.

"Leave," he says, and his voice is quiet and hoarse.

Sherlock's head shoots up and his eyes bore into him, right down to his core. They look hurt. "What?"

He swallows. "Leave. You have to leave. I can't…you were gone three years, Sherlock, I—"

"At least let me explain—"

"No! No. I don't…not yet. You can't just come here and pretend everything's fine and sit there like you've never left. Not after three years. You have to leave. I'm sure Mycroft will help you out, if you go to him."

Sherlock sets his lips in a tight line, as though he's holding something in, and then he drops his eyes. He stands and hands his untouched tea to Mrs. Hudson, who accepts it with a shaking hand.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Good to see you. I'll talk to you soon."

And then he walks out the door. He doesn't look back.

"Oh, John," whispers Mrs. Hudson. "What have you done?"

He doesn't know. He doesn't know, and his hands are shaking. Sherlock is alive. He was here, in this flat, seconds ago. Breathing. Sitting on the couch. Empirically, he knows he had to kick him out. His mind needs to get used to the fact that Sherlock is alive after three years of trying to get used to his death. He can't deal with the man until he deals with his own brain. At the same time, though, he feels a great pit, a gaping maw of sadness, opening up inside of him at letting him go. What if there was only one chance? Sherlock isn't generous with his emotions, and he had seemed sorry. What if he screwed it up? He should go after him, apologize….

But no, he's not the one who needs to apologize, that's Sherlock's job.

Which he's already completed. _I owe you an apology, John. I had no idea you would be so affected._

That voice…what if it's all just some drunken, fevered dream?

Damn him, damn him, damn him.

No, he had to kick him out. Despite everything, Sherlock had the right to be heard, to be heard without anger or frustration. And now, he was far too angry and confused and relieved and exhausted and ecstatic to hear his story without killing him.

He feels Mrs. Hudson's hand on his shoulder and he realizes his face is wet with tears. _What a bloody mess. Look at what you've done to me._

Outside the window, in the black night, it begins to rain.

* * *

**To answer the question someone had, the title comes from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty, which I've basically been listening to on repeat while writing this.**


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